


in late march

by backlit (cuimhl)



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Pining, Underage Drinking, character introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 09:04:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12503832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuimhl/pseuds/backlit
Summary: “Kyouya, are you alright?” Tamaki is too close, leaning forward with brows furrowed in concern, reaching out to grasp Kyouya’s wrist in his warm, wide palm before he falls. Nice hands; Kyouya has always noticed this.“I’m fine,” he bites out, borderline snarling in defensive irritation. “Just tired. I haven’t been sleeping well.”Because of you, he wants to add.Because I can’t stop thinking about you.





	in late march

 

 

Because sometimes, as Kyouya lies awake at night in his bed, too big and cold an expanse of rustling linen, he thinks about Tamaki. For the usual reasons, of course -- Tamaki’s stupid but wildly extravagant ideas, costly endeavours, how to budget for the month ahead -- but lately, for other ones too.

It’s almost spring, the February snow washing away under a deluge that, with the pungent damp soil yielding underfoot, brought with it the first heads of new blossoms shifting towards the sun. The days are still short; Kyouya unfolds his limbs supine between the sheets, long after nightfall, his mind static with mathematical formulas. But unbidden, from some traitorous alcove in his memory, Tamaki slips out: hair a candied mess, golden and tangled under the sun. A twitch of a smile quirking up the corner of his lips, hands folded over his thigh, gaze piercing in that characteristic, disarming perspicacity that never fails to take Kyouya’s breath away -- just a little, differently every time. 

Well, a penetrating stare he shares with Haruhi, anyway. Kyouya doesn’t understand why he tenses up at the thought, shot through with startling annoyance. Dismisses it as residual frustration from his schoolwork. Coaxes his body to slumber, then, with total control in the efficient way he has taught himself to live years ago when he encountered chance and the unforeseeable for the first time.

Kyouya learns from all experiences, good and bad, because the desire to always be _better_ hungers insatiably between the wings of his ribs. But he should have learnt from this one, committed the lesson to memory -- or perhaps, like the whimsical chime of life he has always detested, this was always just going to be one of those things he couldn’t control. See, it isn’t as easy to discard the gold-headed impediment the next time, or the time after that; Tamaki carries in his kotatsus and crazy foolhardiness to make a home in Kyouya’s mind. At first he only ever emerges when Kyouya is trying to sleep, but as time passes, he makes appearances more and more frequently, always unwelcome.

In late march, an ache flowers under his collarbone and festers there. It doesn’t completely go away for years. Kyouya likes rational things, and in a way, this _does_ grow to operate in a more or less of a scientific process: the ache slips off on vacation whenever Tamaki smiles at him. Then it returns and swallows him whole when Tamaki smiles at someone else. Easy? Not at all.

They’re cleaning up one afternoon when everyone else has already left, the afternoon thrumming thick and sulphurous in honeyed sunshine, heavy as a heartbeat. Tamaki is rambling on about some new cosplay idea, maybe as Japanese folktale characters again since that swordsman theme went so well, what do you think, Kyouya? it doesn’t matter what he’s talking about, really -- when he settles at last on some soul-deep desire, Tamaki will let him know in no uncertain terms and Kyouya will find a way to make it work. So for now, Kyouya tunes him out and focuses on stacking plates, pushing the chairs back in place, and the Tamaki who has taken up residence inside his head picks his way out of memory. Kyouya lets him, this time, biting back a sigh, and --

“Kyouya?”

He startles, wrist knocking into the table frame as he backs away instinctively, teetering on his heels, because try as his father might to drum dominance into his powerful sons, Kyouya has always been the one who most needed to fake it --

“Kyouya, are you alright?”

Tamaki is too close, leaning forward with brows furrowed in concern, reaching out to grasp Kyouya’s wrist in his warm, wide palm before he falls, fingers curling over the knuckle of his thumb. Nice hands; Kyouya has always noticed this.

“I’m fine,” he bites out, borderline snarling in defensive irritation, but Tamaki has long ceased to be one easily intimidated by Kyouya’s pretty illusions. So Kyouya adds, softer and more apologetic, “Just tired. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

 _Because of you_ , he wants to add, just to see what it would do to Tamaki, watch his face contort in bewilderment and confusion. _B_ _e_ _cause I can’t stop thinking about you._

And this time, he finally understands.

Tamaki pulls back, the space between them expanding like an exhalation too loud and unbridgeable for comfort, but Kyouya is grateful for the way his composure returns to him, prodigal and chastened as he rights his balance. He brushes his uniform down when Tamaki releases his wrist, his skin burning with the imprint of his long fingers.

“You should take a break, Kyouya,” Tamaki frowns. He still looks worried, biting his lip, hair falling in a curtain over his eyes. “Or -- something, i don’t know. Let’s drop the cosplay idea this month, the girls won’t mind.”

“Keep it,” Kyouya shrugs. “I don’t care. The photobooks are selling well.”

Something flinches in Tamaki’s gaze, the fleeting shadow of hurt across his pale eyes. Then it’s gone and he’s stepping away, hands in pockets, charm dashed over the faint curl of a nascent smile across his lips. “Whatever you say, Kyouya.”

 

♛♛♛

 

He returns at night. Kyouya expected him to. That is why he isn’t surprised that the memory of Tamaki comes armed with a little _more_ : the minute detail of his barely-there dimple indistinct in his left cheek, the sunlight falling across his lips more obvious and apparently memorable than anything else, probably because Kyouya wants to kiss him. Or wanted to; he can’t really remember what it felt like to stand beside him in the music room now, because his body is flushed with warmth and discomfort and he shoves his head into his pillow trying to sleep. Anything but this. _Anything but this._

 

♛♛♛

 

It only happens once, the ache fully banished, replaced with Tamaki’s heavy frame in his arms.

They’re drunk and underage; it's always Tamaki who succeeds in convincing him to do anything remotely impulsive, bending the rules. Risking the wrath of his father, though Kyouya seriously doubts this is something he needs to concern himself with, given that he has the house to himself for a weekend.

Haruhi’s name surfaces in Tamaki’s plaintive voice as he whines with inebriation, and Kyouya doesn’t know what to do with his frustration so he does what he does best, and pretends it doesn’t exist.

“She was kissed, Kyouya,” Tamaki mumbles into his shoulder, fingers limp around a half-empty glass (half-full, a voice chides) that Kyouya fears will tumble onto his carpet and stain it with the stench of alcohol. His father will disapprove.

“You were the one who pushed her,” he rolls his eyes and pushes Tamaki backwards gently, until he is sitting beside him on the couch instead of straddling him in a tangle of dead-weight and sharp, poky joints. He also takes the glass from Tamaki’s fingers and sets it on the table beside him, just to be safe. “Besides, isn’t a father supposed to be happy for his daughter as she experiences the world, regardless of whatever protective jealousy he holds onto?”

He’s humouring Tamaki. There’s more to this; the big, dumb idiot just hasn’t realised yet. Pines away blindly. There’s more to his _own_ feelings too, but Kyouya never said he wasn’t a hypocrite.

“ _I_ haven’t had my first kiss yet,” Tamaki slurs, head lolling sideways over the backrest. His mouth opens to say something else, but he either reconsiders or forgets, because he shuts it again. Then he slumps forward, sits upright, and leans towards Kyouya with intent. The moon glows pearlescent in the lilac curve of his irises, reflective like glass with an intoxicated sheen dulling his gaze. He can’t see through Kyouya like this, but it still feels like he can. Kyouya is horrified that he kind of likes it, the shaky feeling of vulnerability shocking down his spine until he’s fragile with a sting of desire.

“Kiss me, Kyouya.”

“Tamaki,” Kyouya cautions disapprovingly. If his voice trembles on the first syllable, well, no one can fault him. He’s drunk.

“ _W_ _hat_ ,” Tamaki whines, voice dropping down an octave until it rasps, winding a fuse down to Kyouya’s belly and setting him alight. “I bet you haven’t been kissed before either. Isn’t this what people call ‘experimentation’?”

“You’re being childish,” Kyouya narrows his eyes. He doesn’t take kindly to being used for so-called ‘experimentation’, and he _doesn’t_ want this. His body disagrees. His body can shut up and go to hell.

Tamaki purses his lips, the moon silvering his hair as he pushes deeper into Kyouya’s personal space, nosy and forceful as always. The light of streetlamps shifts over his head until he passes into shadow, face a few inches from Kyouya’s. He’s silent for a while, their breaths intermingling in the space between them as Kyouya drowns in the sound of his heartbeat, his mind a jumbled mess. _H_ _e knows_ , he thinks. _T_ _amaki knows._ _H_ _e_ _has to. Why else --_

“Do you really not want this?”

Tamaki’s voice is quiet, and he sounds sober. His gaze has taken on the unfathomable aspect of sharp observation again, dark and spearing right through to Kyouya’s soul like the first time he ever stopped by Kyouya’s house. The sound of his piano lingers, ripples through the room and shivers through Kyouya’s bones which suddenly feel like lead, heavy with anticipation. It’s funny, just a bit, how even when Kyouya had Tamaki’s shirt crumpled in his fist, leaning over him in righteous (read: unjustified) anger, he still felt like prey under Tamaki’s eyes. So maybe Kyouya is a little sick of manipulating people with wit like a knife through butter all the time; maybe he likes the way that Tamaki sees right through his facade, coaxes out the unkindness and cruelty in him, and loves him anyway.

Kyouya shudders, and Tamaki’s watchful gaze follows the movement.

 _No_ , he thinks. _I_ _do want this._  He doesn’t say it aloud, but Tamaki seems to understand. Leans a bit closer so Kyouya can meet him halfway, knuckles gentling over the jut of Kyouya’s jaw and settling his palm against the back of his neck, fingers curling into his dark hair.

Neither of them have kissed anyone before, so it doesn’t feel like much. A press of lips, Tamaki’s cologne more seductive than the motion, the warmth of his body under Kyouya’s roaming hands. He grips Tamaki’s shoulders and tilts his head, pushing back until Tamaki concedes, opens his mouth just slightly. Then they pull apart.

They don’t speak for a while. Kyouya can feel his chest expanding and contracting with the heave of his breathing, and he can hear the faint thud of Tamaki’s heartbeat. The silence is thick as cotton, impossible to breach, pregnant and stifling.

In another universe, Kyouya would surge forward and kiss him again, pulling him impossibly closer until Tamaki is sitting on his lap again, hands dipping under the hem of his shirt until they reach so far into each other that the moment cannot be construed as anything else _but_. In another universe, Kyouya would promise to be a better person and Tamaki would tell him there was no need for him to change, but Kyouya wouldn’t listen and Tamaki would know it; they would walk down the street and Tamaki’s hand could knock into his own, purely by accident, and then they would interlock pinkies, also purely by accident. In another universe, Kyouya would admit he was in love -- had been for a long time, apparently -- and he would be loved back; he could be happy.

In this one, though.

In this one, Tamaki smiles his sunshine smile, genuine but slipping at the edges with a touch of melancholia, like a picture thumbed at the side, fraying after the film had developed fully. Asks, “Can I stay here tonight? You have another mattress, right?”

And Kyouya replies, “Yeah, of course. We have a guest room, remember?”

It’s _experimentation_. It’s something _other_ bleeding through the comfortable ambiance of _just friends_ and in this universe, Tamaki is in love with Haruhi and some part of him is aware of it.

So Kyouya lets him go.

 

♛♛♛

 

( _“Can you imagine a world where I'm not in love with you?”_

_Tamaki is curled up against his side, a warm weight he has grown used to. They’re flicking through channels on the television in their apartment, blissfully middle-class, completely besotted with each other. Kyouya will never admit to it, though._

_“Easily,” he confesses. Tamaki’s hand finds his own and they weave their fingers together on Kyouya’s thigh. This has always been his reaction when Kyouya’s traitorous weakness escapes from his grasp, and Kyouya can pretend he doesn’t need the reassurance, but Tamaki knows he appreciates it._

_“Why?” Tamaki looks at him, eyes bright with curiousity, a hint of sadness toying with his half-smile. “_ I  _can’t imagine one.”_

_Kyouya shrugs. He’s made his peace with his insecurities; he’ll never really be free of them. He doesn’t know what he’d be without Tamaki, as stupidly sentimental as it sounds. More in control of himself, perhaps -- but infinitely less happy. Colder. More afraid, of everything. Tamaki is his courage._

_“It doesn’t matter,” he presses a kiss into the crown of Tamaki’s head. Then Tamaki shifts, so that their faces are at the same level again, and kisses him back in earnest._

_“I’ll never have to imagine that, so long as you’re here with me.”_

_“So dumb,” Tamaki says fondly._

_Kyouya flicks his brow, snatching the remote from his hand. “That’s rich, coming from you. Now, I’m sick of watching Animal Kingdom. The news broadcast is starting in a minute, hey, don’t tickle me --”_ )

 

**Author's Note:**

> i have a lot of feelings about ouran, sue me 
> 
> thank you for reading! feedback welcome :^) (i'm gOING TO REPLY TO EVERYTHING ON EVERYTHING ELSE I SWEAR)


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